I almost crash into a truck, at first. I can turn on a dime and accelerate like a tiny nitrous-oxide-fueled bat out of hell—even though I'm holding a 10-pound pipe bomb, 30 per cent of my body weight. I don't know what I'm doing, really. But by the time I get to the truck to plant the bomb, it's easy. I know exactly what to do.

Robots can't have feelings. But humans develop feelings for them. You know, like R2-D2 in Star Wars. Or like Scooby Doo, a real life small robot that saved the day 19 times. This is his single-tear story.

Like the prologue of any robopocalypse movie where the machines rise up to destroy us, most of the robots we hear about do things we could do, but don't want to. They mop our floors. They put together cars. They die for us.